


sparks fly up

by Lirazel



Category: Infinite (Band), K-POP RPF, K-pop, Korean Pop, Kpop-Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“What is all this shit you were saying about yourself?”</i>  </p><p>Myungsoo reads Sungyeol's latest interview and is not impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sparks fly up

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much straight id-fic that I just had to write when I read [this interview](http://infiniteupdates.tumblr.com/post/28666413004) with Sungyeol. Apparently id-fic is all I’m capable of writing about these two. I’m not even sorry. This is for all the Sungyeol fans who want to grab him by his shoulders and shake some sense into him as you tell him he’s wonderful.

Myungsoo’s hands start shaking as he reads the second question, and by the time he reaches the end of the interview, he can’t decide whether he wants to scream or cry. His socked feet slide on the slick floor of the living room so that he barely manages to stay upright, and he fumbles as he tries to open the door to the bedroom, the simple knob somehow too complicated for him to deal with. When he finally flings the door open, Sungyeol is lying on his stomach on his bed, heels kicking in the air, scrolling through his phone and whistling something off-key. Dongwoo is there, too, but Myungsoo barely notices, storming over to stand above Sungyeol.

“What’s this?” Myungsoo can hear his own voice shake as he holds up the magazine.

“Looks like _Inkigayo Magazine_ to me,” Sungyeol says, tossing his phone down beside in him on the bed. “But you know I’ve been having trouble with my eye lately—“

Oh, _no_. He is _not_ going to start playing stupid, not about this. “What is this article? What _is_ this?” He gives the magazine an angry shake for emphasis. It’s open to the page he’d been reading, and Myungsoo knows that Sungyeol knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“My interview,” Sungyeol answers, rolling over onto his back and lazily scratching his stomach. Myungsoo realizes he’s clutching the magazine so hard that it’s crumpling under the force of his grip. The pages aren’t ever going to lay flat and sleek again, but he doesn’t _care_.

Behind Myungsoo, Dongwoo rises from his own bed, silent, and slips out of the room, his fingers brushing against Myungsoo’s shoulder as he goes. The door closes with a quiet click and Myungsoo and Sungyeol are alone.

Myungsoo screws his eyes closed for a minute, then pops them open again. “What is all this shit you were saying about yourself?” he demands, trying to keep his voice steady. It doesn’t quite work.

Sungyeol shrugs, and Myungsoo wants to punch him in the face, over and over and over again. “I just answered the questions.”

Myungsoo hurls the magazine at the floor, and it doesn’t make nearly as much noise as he’d like for it to. He wants to stomp on it, make it shatter into a million dust-fine pieces that can never be put together again, but it’s paper, that won’t work. Maybe he can find a shredder later. Or burn it. Yes. Burn it. “This isn’t who you are!”

“Sure it is,” Sungyeol says amicably. “And we all know it. You all always say my honesty is my charm point. And the interviewer even agreed.”

“There’s nothing _charming_ about calling yourself worthless!” His desperation is starting to slip through the cracks in his anger. 

Sungyeol holds up a finger. “Now, I don’t think I ever actually said—“

“There’s nothing that makes you stand out from the rest of the members? There’s nothing you’re good at? Why the fuck would you say this about yourself?” Myungsoo kicks the magazine now—it flops against the wood of the bedstead like a dead bird and slides to the ground. Myungsoo hadn’t known it was possible to hate an inanimate object this way.

“Because it’s _true_.” Sungyeol’s flippancy disintegrates in an instant, and he jerks his long body upright, propelling himself off the bed to stand right in front of Myungsoo, using the five centimeters of height he has on Myungsoo to his advantage. His face is so taut; Myungsoo has never seen him this way. He almost looks like a stranger, except that he could never look like a stranger. “I was just saying what everybody knows and what all the fans say. At least one of us should be honest on occasion.”

“It’s not true.” Myungsoo’s own voice is cracking the way Sungyeol’s usually does, and he can feel tears that won’t fall burning against the backs of his eyes. In his head, he sees the bags that sat packed by the wall in their old dorm, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. The panic he always felt when he looked at them volcanoes up inside him. Through that panic he wonders, not for the first time, whether Sungyeol thought that he would be sent away or whether he was planning on running himself or whether there would have been any difference, any way to distinguish between the two. _No._ “It’s all _bullshit_ —it’s not _true_.”

Sungyeol laughs, and that sound—the sound that is usually Myungsoo’s favorite sound in the world—is twisted and wrong and Myungsoo could throw up right here, all over Sungyeol’s mismatched socks. “I always said you were an innocent kid,” Sungyeol says, and reaches out to pat Myungsoo on the cheek.

Myungsoo smacks his hand away, and Sungyeol jerks back, startled. They smack each other a lot, shoving and kicking like little boys, but it’s always in fun. Myungsoo would never have dreamed that he’d ever touch Sungyeol out of anger, and though it can’t really have hurt at all, Sungyeol’s eyes are huge and disbelieving. 

“I won’t let you think this about yourself.” Myungsoo knows he sounds petulant, but he can’t help it, not when he feels this way.

Recovered from his shock, Sungyeol sighs in frustration, an explosive sound, and crosses his arms. “Okay, so name one thing I’m good at. Name one thing I’ve contributed to Infinite. Go on.” He jerks his chin out, indicating that he’s waiting.

Myungsoo is still trembling with emotion, so many feelings cycloning inside of him that he can barely think straight. “You’re amazing at variety shows,” he says, grateful that he’s managing to form words. “You’re funnier than the rest of us put together. The MCs _love_ you.”

Sungyeol rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing I do that the fans would miss if I weren’t there. There’s nothing I do one of the rest of you couldn’t do. Probably better.”

That’s so not true Myungsoo doesn’t even know how to address it, so he moves on. “You’re a way better dancer than I am. You learn the moves quicker than Leader, even.” Not so fast as Dongwoo and Hoya and Woohyun, but then nobody could be expected to pick them up faster than those three. Dongwoo and Hoya were born to dance, and Woohyun’s natural athleticism makes it easy for him. 

“Please. I’m only decent at it, not good, there are a million guys in Korea who would be better than me, and you and Sungjong make up for your mistakes with being handsome and adorable or whatever. They should just put one of the Tasty guys in my place.”

Myungsoo wants to pound his fists against Sungyeol’s chest, scream, _no one could ever take your place you idiot that’s my point why are you being this way?_ , but he won’t, because as angry as he is, he never wants to really hurt Sungyeol (ever). He wants to put his arms around him and whisper, harsh and hot and true against the piercings in his ear, _why can’t you see yourself you are so so much_ , but he can’t. He’s wanted it for so long, wanted it every time Sungyeol leaves the recording studio uncharacteristically quiet and sits in the back corner seat of the van staring out the window, not acknowledging Myungsoo even when he slides up close beside him, their arms pressed against each other; every time he comes back from the gym exhausted and wrung-out and is snippy with Woohyun and Hoya and won’t even look at Dongwoo for the next hour; every time he collapses onto his bed after a variety show and closes his eyes, massaging his eyelids with the heels of his hands, reliving (Myungsoo knows—he _knows_ ) every single thing he said or did and convincing himself that it’s stupid and then beating himself up over each infraction. 

He can’t, though: the words won’t come, stuck inside his throat where they’re trying to choke him, wrapping around his neck to suffocate him, coating the inside of his mouth with bitterness. “You fucking idiot,” is all he manages to say, the words grating out. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“Because I’m an immature elementary-schooler with no talent! I can’t be cool even when I try!” _Now_ Sungyeol’s voice cracks, and his eyes are glassy with tears that don’t relieve him by falling.

“Who cares if you’re cool?” It’s the wrong thing to say, it’s not what he mean, it’s not what he _meant_ —what he meant was, _you’re better than cool cool is so much less than what you are_. But that’s not what came out. The things he wants to say never come out, not when he’s talking to Sungyeol.

Sungyeol stares at him in disbelief. “ _I_ do!”

“Well, I don’t!”

Sungyeol starts laughing again, and this time the sound is even worse. If Myungsoo were still a little boy, he’d put his hands over his ears to block it out, but he’s not a little boy anymore. They’re grownups now, the two of them, even if both of them would feel awkward sincerely calling themselves men, and the world is so tangled up and broken, and covering your ears doesn’t keep the truth out. “Of course you don’t! God, everything’s so _easy_ for you, Kim Myungsoo.”

Now it’s Myungsoo’s turn to stare in disbelief. “Easy?” he echoes.

“Yeah,” Sungyeol confirms with a sharp nod. “Easy. All you have to do is show up, and that’s enough. What was it Tablo-hyung said? ‘You’re handsome and your name is L so nothing else matters.’”

“ _My name is not L_.” If he weren’t still trembling with all these feelings, Myungsoo would probably be startled at the intensity with which those words shoot right out of his mouth. Sungyeol always remembers to call him L for the cameras, and if Myungsoo is honest, the consistency of it—he _always_ remembers, never slips up—has hung around his neck like a weight for years, but Sungyeol has never called him that when they’re alone, not once. Hearing it now strips him raw.

“But it is to them! Don’t you see? You have something to offer, something they want.” Sungyeol sounds almost pleading now, or he would if he didn’t sound so bitterangry. “You have something to give. Infinite _needs_ you. It doesn’t need me, and the fans don’t either.”

“ _I_ need you!” The words torpedo out without him thinking about them, but they’re the truest thing he’s ever said in his life. His emotion-hazed mind can’t decide if he should have voiced that or not, if he’ll regret it later, but in this moment it doesn’t matter. “ _I_ fucking need you!”

Sungyeol blinks, and something flashes through his eyes, something big and scary that makes Myungsoo’s head go light. But then it’s gone lightning-quick and his face is set again. And he scoffs.

The sight shoves Myungsoo forward like a strong hand against his back, and he finds that he’s right up against Sungyeol, right up against his warmth and the longness of him, but not touching except where his hands are fisted in his worn t-shirt. It’s a v-neck, dipping low to expose his collarbones and his mole, and the little infinity symbol is glinting in the hollow of his throat, the chain so very delicate around his neck. “I. Need. You.” He has to make Sungyeol understand this, _has_ to. He’ll hold him down and tattoo it on the inside of his eyelids, carve it into his bones, anything so that Sungyeol really believes it. 

Sungyeol looks away, the tendons in his neck shifting with the motion, the thin chain catching the light. “For what?”

_to be my best friend to be the one who makes it bearable to be the thing that makes me stay to be the one who reminds me who i am to be to be to be to be to be_

He can’t say that. So he jerks Sungyeol closer, his lips finding Sungyeol’s as though that’s what they’d been made to do. The kiss is so much, too much, till Myungsoo thinks his skin might peel right off his bones and slide away, his skeleton might superheat and melt down to nothing, but he doesn’tcan’twon’t stop. He feels Sungyeol shudder under his hands, feels Sungyeol’s hands fumble against his shoulders, feels Sungyeol kiss him back, feels _Sungyeol_.

They stare at each other afterwards, and Myungsoo feels Sungyeol’s panting the way he feels his own. Sungyeol’s eyes are so bigbigbig, the biggest eyes in the world, Myungsoo had written that in an interview once, but he’d had no idea. 

“I need you,” Myungsoo breathes, because he’s been breathing that for years.

A flush has been stealing onto Sungyeol’s fair cheeks, and he averts his eyes. “For that?”

 _For everything_. “Not just for that.”

Sungyeol meets his eyes again after a moment, and when he shrugs his shoulders, he looks like a lost little boy. “But that’s just you.”

Myungsoo hears what he doesn’t say: that Myungsoo might need him, but he still doesn’t think that Infinite does, that the fans do. Myungsoo wants for his need for Sungyeol to be enough to render everything else irrelevant, but he knows it isn’t. It might be, someday—God, the thought that it might be makes his skin feel tight and hot ( _he kissed me back_ )—but it isn’t yet, not when they have to leave this room and go out on stage and in front of the cameras and be for the fans. Sungyeol needs something more to cling to, and Myungsoo isn’t sure what to give him.

“You are….” There aren’t any words for this. There aren’t. “You’re Sungyeol. And that’s _enough_. That’s fucking enough, damn it!”

Myungsoo doesn’t cuss so very often. It’s not that he has anything against it, he just doesn’t talk much to begin with and when he does he usually doesn’t feel the need for words that vivid. But he can’t help it right now—he needs to put every bit of force he can behind his words.

Sungyeol’s lips twitch. “Do you think if you say ‘fuck’ often enough I’ll actually believe you?”

The tension flows out of Myungsoo like water bursting through a levee. “Yes,” he says, and he shudders as he laughs, a breathy sound he knows he’s never made before. “Yes, I do think that.”

Sungyeol looks away after a minute and sniffs, and there are tears slipping down his cheeks, and he’s always been such a crybaby, and Myungsoo loves him so fucking much for that. Sungyeol wipes the tears off almost violently, and Myungsoo imagines leaning towards him again and tasting the salt left behind, tracing the invisible lines with his tongue. He doesn’t think Sungyeol would appreciate that, though, so he just wraps one of his arms around Sungyeol’s waist and leans his forehead against his shoulder. 

“Do you think I would lie to you?” he mutters, breathing in the smell of Sungyeol. “Do you think I’m lying to you when I tell you these things?”

“People say a lot of things to make other people feel better. They aren’t lies, really….”

“They are lies, and I’m not doing that.” He thumps his head against Sungyeol’s shoulder. “That’s not what I’m doing. I mean the things I say to you.”

Sungyeol’s laugh is watery, but underneath that it sounds like his laugh should, and Myungsoo thinks he could cry himself. “I know you do. That’s why I said you were an innocent kid.” Sungyeol bumps his own head into Myungsoo’s, not hard enough that it hurts, just hard enough to let him know he’s there, and Myungsoo laughs.

He feels the chain of the necklace pressing into the skin of his cheek, and he ducks his head a bit more, sliding his nose along Sungyeol’s collarbones. “You don’t have to be cool unless you want to. I mean, if you want to, then you should do it, but if you don’t, it’s okay.” It’s probably nonsense, what’s coming out of his mouth, but he says it anyway. He doesn’t babble very often, but this is Sungyeol. “You do have a lot of fans, you know, and they like you the way you are.” _I like you the way you are._

“You don’t think I should grow up?” 

Myungsoo feels Sungyeol’s fingers brushing against his own where his hand dangles free. They don’t lace them together, but Sungyeol’s skin is touching his, his fingers starting to play across Myungsoo’s, and Myungsoo’s chest is so tight but it feels so good. “If you want to.” He can’t quite imagine a completely grown-up Sungyeol, one who is never silly or too energetic for his own good, doesn’t think that Sungyeol could ever become like that. But he wouldn’t mind if he matured a little bit either. It doesn’t matter to Myungsoo. Sungyeol should do what he wants to do.

“What do _you_ want?” Sungyeol asks, still playing with Myungsoo’s fingers.

 _You._ Myungsoo raises his head and finds Sungyeol’s lips again, and the kiss is less fierce and desperate this time, softer, but maybe even more yearning. Myungsoo feels Sungyeol’s heart thrumming against his chest, feels Sungyeol’s hand wrap around his wrist and Sungyeol’s other arm loop over his shoulder. He’s been close to Sungyeol so many, many times, mostly for the fans who sigh and squeal whenever they touch, has pressed himself up against Sungyeol’s back like he wants to be a part of Sungyeol ( _he does_ ), has hugged him dozens of times. But this is more. This makes him ache from his eyelids to his fingertips, ache for Sungyeol.

“You listen to yourself too much,” Myungsoo says against Sungyeol’s lips when they break apart. He still has his eyes closed, because when they’re closed everything is Sungyeolsmell and Sungyeolfeel and Sungyeolsound—and if he just moves his lips the slightest bit forward, Sungyeoltaste—and there’s nothing else in the world. “You should start listening to other people. You should hear them when they say good things about you.” _You should believe them. You should believe me._

Sungyeol sighs, and his breath fans against Myungsoo’s face. Myungsoo shivers and tightens his hold. “That’s hard,” Sungyeol says, his voice a little whiny like it sometimes is. It annoys some of the others, but Myungsoo’s never minded it. “Really hard.”

Myungsoo knows. He hears that he’s beautiful a hundred times a day, but he still doesn’t feel the connection between what people say and who he feels like inside. It’s not that he doesn’t think it’s true: he knows intellectually that he’s attractive, but he feels like a normal person while all the while everyone is trying to tell him he’s special. It makes him feel weird. “I can yell them in your ear a lot. And write them in marker on your skin. And record them for your ringtone. And—“

“Okay, okay,” Sungyeol says, laughing for real, not even soggy now, just that wonderful throaty sound. “I’ll try harder.”

“Good,” Myungsoo says, and kisses him again to punctuate it. When the kiss is over, he still holds on, cheek back against Sungyeol’s shoulder, the bone of it firm against his face. He’d be fine staying this way forever, but Sungyeol starts to squirm after a moment and Myungsoo remembers that Sungyeol isn’t a very touchy person. So he releases him, stepping back. 

And then an idea comes to him. He bends down and fishes around under the bed for the magazine that somehow got kicked under there (neither of them had noticed). Once he snags it, he straightens, grabs Sungyeol by the wrist, and tugs him behind him towards the door. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Sungyeol whines. 

“To get rid of this,” Myungsoo answers.

He burns it in the kitchen sink, lit with a lighter borrowed from Hoya, the pages curling and twisting against the silver metal, bits of ash and little scraps flying up like insects, the smell of the burning ink itching Myungsoo’s nose unpleasantly. Sungyeol protests the whole time, sometimes laughing, sometimes telling him how weird he is, how ridiculous and dramatic this is, like a scene from television, but Myungsoo just stares until there’s nothing left but ash. And then he stares some more. He feels Sungyeol hanging over his shoulder, those long, familiar fingers slipping into the belt loops of his jeans down at the small of his back, his voice cracking in Myungsoo’s ear as he asks if the drama is over. 

“Yeah,” Myungsoo says. “It’s over.”

And then he turns on the sink and washes the black mess away.


End file.
